


Very Strange and Wonderful

by ensorcel



Category: The Devil Wears Prada (2006)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, F/F, F/M, Fluff, Light Angst, Older Woman/Younger Woman
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-15
Updated: 2020-04-15
Packaged: 2021-03-01 20:33:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,767
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23663173
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ensorcel/pseuds/ensorcel
Summary: One year, and the publication of your dreams.This was what Andy told herself of why she stayed. (Honestly, she wasn't sure.)
Relationships: Miranda Priestly & Andrea Sachs, Miranda Priestly/Andrea Sachs
Comments: 30
Kudos: 233





	Very Strange and Wonderful

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: All rights reserved to Twentieth Century Fox and Laura Weisberger. Any characters recognized don't belong to me.
> 
> Many thanks to zigostia for beta-ing this story.

_ One year, and then the publication of your dreams. The job that a million girls wanted. One year. _

Maybe that’s why Andy stayed. Maybe she hadn’t even fathomed leaving. Maybe it’s ‘cause she missed the look on Nigel’s face when Miranda’s careful whisper announced “Jacqueline Follet” and a part of her soul went with her. Maybe, just maybe.

But when Miranda reached back for an assistant that had both failed and passed her multiple times, Andy was there, just slightly pushed back by the crowd of journalists. She didn’t ask herself why she stayed. (That’s a lie. She did. She did.)

Miranda didn’t look up to a fountain a hundred feet away. But Andy wouldn’t have known if she had. Her hand was too busy clutching her phone as she focused on not falling on her ass in those high heels that she was still kind of getting used to. (There would be a lot of things she would be getting used to.)

Andy can’t look Nigel in the eye. It will take a while for her to be able to.

They flew back to New York, with Andy’s cramping hand jotting down notes at a hundred miles per hour because Miranda had never been able to stop working. What Andy didn’t know—or maybe she did—was that this was both Miranda’s failing and her saving grace.

She tried to forget Miranda’s glassy eyes and bare face. Tried to forget how soft the woman’s skin was. (Spoiler alert: she failed.)

The divorce was filed. Andy was surprised that it hadn’t hit the papers yet.

She came home to an empty apartment and a hastily scribbled note. She told herself it didn’t hurt and he should’ve understood better. She’s too tired to cry.

She does anyways.

Emily’s still at work in her cast. Andy didn’t give her the clothes from Paris. She needed them to improve her still-improving wardrobe. And maybe because Andy wanted to go somewhere. Make it somewhere. Even if the most writing she did was send emails.

Emily still wasn’t speaking to her. Which was kind of hard, since Miranda’s two assistants did need to actually interact with one another to do their jobs. Andy gets it. Kind of. Hard to sympathize with Emily when she won’t even look at Andy.

As if she hadn’t already, Andy’s able to anticipate Miranda’s every wish. It’s her job, anyways. Just a few more months, right?

She learnt that Miranda hates anything after her lunch but on Tuesdays and occasionally Fridays, she didn’t mind a small cup of fruit with a silver spoon. And of course, the fruit had to be sourced from this ridiculously expensive small grocer’s store a thirty-minute drive from the office. But Andy caught Miranda with a small smile on her face, and maybe, just maybe, that thirty-minute drive was worth it. (Andy doesn’t like to think about what this might mean.)

She’s figured out, or rather interrogated out, from Millie, Miranda’s housekeeper, that the twins like fruit popsicles, and on days their mother was home late, Andy always made sure that the fridge was stocked.

It was the small things. (The small things that let her keep her job.)

That’s what she’d noticed. A small bruise just under Miranda’s cheekbone that she didn’t want to think of where it was from. A small bottle of concealer gently tucked behind the photographs on Miranda’s desk. By the time the afternoon rolled around, the bruise was gone and Andy had yet to be called by Miranda.

The divorce hit the papers. Took them fast enough. The staff ignored the dark circles underneath Miranda’s eyes that state-of-the-art make-up can’t seem to hide. Andy twitches. Something’s bothering her.

The next day there’s another small bruise, just at Miranda’s neck. Fuck. That’s not a bruise. It’s a hickey. A small bottle of concealer was still slipped onto Miranda’s desk. If Andy was anything, she was most of all discreet.

The divorce goes through. Not surprising. Miranda’s got the best lawyers in the state, if not the country. Andy had only had to hand Miranda makeup once more. Things settled down. Paris started to fade into the background. People moved on. Andy was able to look Nigel in the eye again.

Andy was still first assistant. At least to Miranda and to her, if not in her paycheque or her title. She didn’t mind. That was what she told herself.

It was easy. It started to get easy. (If that was a word that anyone could use to describe Miranda Priestly.) Andy got  _ good. _

Good enough that when Emily flew back to England for a promotion of Art Director of  _ British Runway _ , Miranda barely noticed. It took Andy two tries to hire a good replacement. But Eileen would never know where to buy those expensive fruits and she would certainly never say anything about Miranda that was anything out of place. Maybe that was why she seemed to flourish where Andy had previously failed.

The yearly gala rolled around again, and Andy had made sure everything was perfect. From the flowers to the lighting to the dress colours of the guests, everything was mapped out to perfection.

It was hard.

Nate had been gone almost six months. Miranda’s hair seemed very soft.

She occasionally went out for drinks with Nigel. Sometimes there were other coworkers. She wished she had her friends back.

Huh.

Yeah. Sometimes she did.

Well. She was chasing a dream. It was often a lonely path. The wine tasted lovely. (She wasn’t sure if she wanted the lonely path. The road not taken.)

That’s her English minor shining through. Jesus, she must be drunk.

She stumbled home. The apartment was empty.

* * *

Every morning she dropped off a small platter of fruit on the corner of Miranda’s desk, right beside the coffee and water, tucked in front of the various magazine subscriptions of the month.

She was in before Eileen—normal, usually—and spent time quickly tidying up Miranda’s desk from the day before. Not that it really needed cleaning, but Andy knew that she liked a clean desktop for the coming day of ritualistic failure.

Glancing at the clock, she took a sip from her coffee, booting up her computer and basking slightly in the early morning. The sun started to rise.

It was quiet.

Footsteps echoed in the hall. Snapping out of it, she quickly sat at her desk, typing in her password. The door swung open.

“Good morning, Miranda!” she chirped.

Miranda looked at her.

“Good morning, Andrea,” she replied. Huh. Strange. Miranda then flung her coat and bag onto Eileen’s desk, stepping into her office. Not so strange. Andy thought she saw the computer monitor wobble a little.

Andy waited for the string of orders to call from Miranda’s office. For some reason, at six-ridiculously-early in the morning, Miranda had nothing to say. Andy slumped in her chair. Well. This was kind of a waste.

At least she could get a head start on some things. As eight rolled by, Andy had gotten through a good chunk of her work for the day; she ordered the skirts from Prada, called Armani’s assistant (who was also awake at this ungodly hour) to confirm the shoot for this Thursday, and replied to all of her emails. Miranda had yet to say a word.

Promptly, as the clock struck eight, Eileen rushed through the doors, glancing at Andy with a panicked look—should she have been in early?—but proceeded with delivering Miranda her coffee. (Now that Andy thought of it, she was surprised Miranda hadn’t asked her to pick one up earlier. Huh.)

“Andrea?”

Andy leapt out of her seat and scrambled her way into the office.

“Yes, Miranda?”

“Cancel my morning appointments until ten. Call Roy, we’re leaving,” Miranda ordered, ignoring the coffee Eileen had so dutifully placed on her desk.

“Yes, Miranda,” Andy replied, whipping out her cell phone and pressing four on her speed dial. Huh. Where the hell she was going with Miranda now, she didn’t know. She didn’t see this coming, but maybe after this morning, she should’ve.

Eileen glanced at Andy, mouthing “should I come too?”. There was fear in her eyes. Andy nearly chuckled. “No, I don’t think so,” Andy mouthed back, and gestured for Eileen to grab Miranda’s coat and bag.

Within seconds, Miranda strut out of the office, snatching her coat from Eileen and barely waited for Andy to follow. Once they’d reached the elevators, Andy stood back carefully, ready to catch the second car down. Miranda looked at her—strangely? Quizzically? Andy had no clue—and nodded for her to get in.

Huh.

Also strange.

The air seemed to still as they travelled down the many, many floors to the lobby. Andy almost didn’t want to breathe.

“Where are we going?” she dared to ask. She wanted to slap herself. (But then she noticed a very, very,  _ very  _ faint purple at the top of Miranda’s cheekbone, clearly carefully covered up by expensive makeup and a clever hand. Andy wanted to wish it away.)

Miranda gave her a look that said “shouldn’t you know?”, but Andy pressed on.

“Well,” she stammered, “you did tell me to clear your morning.”

“Breakfast.”

Huh?

Wait what—

What the  _ fuck?  _ Breakfast? With Miranda Priestly? Her  _ boss? _

Andy didn’t say anything else.

They walked silently to the car, Andy rushing for the door, and sliding in on the other side.

“You haven’t eaten,” Miranda said, staring out the window.

“Uh, no,” she stammered, noticing just how  _ low  _ Miranda’s neckline was today. Jesus. (Maybe she hadn’t voiced before, but her boss was a very, very attractive woman.)

“Then we shall eat.”

Andy nearly sputtered.

The car pulled up to a small, extremely expensive looking restaurant. A meal here was obviously more than her week’s salary. Andy rushed out, nearly running to grab Miranda’s door. The woman glanced up and down at her—was her outfit messy? Was her makeup smudged? She only got a small smirk and a clatter of heels on pavement.

Huh.

Okay.

Andy followed Miranda through the doors and pulled out her notebook, ready to take notes. Miranda frowned when they sat down. What did she do now?

“You won’t be needing that,” she said, placing her bag beside her.

“Okay,” Andy said hesitantly. She too, set aside her things. What was Miranda doing?

“What will you be ordering today, Ms. Priestly?” the waiter asked.

“My usual, thank you,” Miranda said—did Miranda Priestly just say  _ thank you?  _ Christ, Miranda didn’t even say thank you when Andy nearly died for that impossible  _ Harry Potter  _ book.

“And you, miss?” Andy hadn’t even had time to look over the menu.

“Uh,” she stumbled, picking up the fancy paper. There weren’t even prices listed.

“She’ll have the signature crêpes,” Miranda offered. She gave Andy a very, very slight smile. (It was very pretty.)

“Yes, thank you,” Andy said, handing him her menu. She sat nervously, waiting for what the hell was next. Was this Miranda’s fanciest way of saying “you’re fired”?

“Tomorrow, we will be meeting with Dean Baquet, don’t be late,” Miranda announced, folding her napkin over her lap. Huh? Andy’s eyes nearly bulged out of her skull. Dean Baquet, like  _ the  _ Dean Baquet, the Editor-in-Chief of the  _ New York Times _ ?

“Yes, of course Miranda,” Andy replied, as if she wasn’t being offered the biggest career opportunity since, well, since she was hired at  _ Runway.  _ She almost, just almost asked why the  _ fuck  _ Miranda was being so nice to her.

When their food came, Miranda ate in silence, as she usually did at the office. Did she just want an excuse to grab a meal? Why the hell would she bring Andy along anyways?

But all her thoughts went away when she bit into the crêpe. Jesus, that was glorious. She was glad she hadn’t seen a single price on that menu because she was willing to bet that she was nowhere near affording it. (Hopefully Miranda would be picking up this tab.)

“Delicious, isn’t it?” Miranda asked, looking at Andy. Her eyes were a lovely shade of blue.

“Yes, I’ve never had anything this good,” Andy gushed, noticing a crumb right above Miranda’s lip, and before she could think, she reached out and brushed it off. (Oh fuck.) “Sorry, you just had something—”

“Thank you,” Miranda replied. Huh?

Strange. (Miranda’s skin was very soft.)

* * *

After that strange morning Miranda didn’t bring Andy anywhere else to eat. (But she did meet Dan Baquet and was referenced to a senior reporter on their political coverage team. He had agreed to take a look at her writing.)

Maybe Miranda was taking Eileen around places to eat, and quite oddly, the thought made Andy’s chest boil. She couldn’t pinpoint why.

Nate had nearly been gone a year. Andy was finally good at her job. One more fashion season to go and Andy would be out the door. (Finally, no more insane requests from Miranda, and maybe, just maybe, she’ll be working where she had always planned to in college.)

Andy had her fingers crossed.

Eileen had yet to gain Miranda’s trust, and so, it was still her faithful duty to wait around for The Book.

At least it gave her time to write.

She’d expected to drop it off quickly and head straight home. It’d been a long day. (Nigel could be just as demanding as Miranda sometimes.)

Quietly opening Miranda’s front door, she stepped through, quickly taking off her shoes.

There was shouting upstairs. Andy froze.

Just drop it off. The last thing Miranda wanted was an assistant walking in on a fight. (God knows Andy has already done that.)

Wait—

Stephen had left  _ months  _ ago. What the hell was he still doing here?

There was a crash. Andy didn’t move.

“LEAVE!”

Andy could hear Miranda from downstairs. She’d never heard the woman raise her voice like that.

Come on. Set the book down and get the fuck out of there. But there was a nag in the back of Andy’s mind.

Footsteps rushed down the stairs, and low and behold, it was Miranda’s asshole of a husband. He didn’t even notice her as he stormed out the door. Andy set The Book on its usual table and rushed upstairs.

Her heart was beating out of her chest. She clenched her fists.

Oh fuck.

Miranda was on the floor, nearly sprawled out with a bruise on her cheek and a smashed chair beside her. Andy rushed over and helped her boss up. There was alcohol on her breath.

“Are, are you okay?” she asked as Miranda sat in an armchair. “I’m going to grab some ice.”

Miranda merely nodded. Andy noticed the empty glass of scotch beside her.

As she scampered down the stairs, she prayed that the twins hadn’t heard any of the shouting match. Who the hell was she kidding, they’d probably spied on the whole thing. Grabbing an ice pack from Miranda’s ridiculously fancy freezer, she prayed that she wouldn’t be fired. And that she could kick Stephen’s ass.

“Here,” Andy said, offering Miranda the ice. She swept up the scotch and tucked it back into the cabinet, taking the glass off the counter to be cleaned.

Miranda didn’t say anything. She stared at Andy.

Was there something wrong with her hair? Did her makeup smudge?

Miranda looked really pretty tonight.

Without thinking, Andy knelt and held the woman’s hands, rubbing soft circles.

“Is there anything else I can do?”

Miranda stared at her. God, how the  _ fuck  _ could Stephen hurt a woman like Miranda?

“I can go and kick your ex-husband’s ass,” Andy joked, before realising what she had said. To her surprise, Miranda gave a small laugh. Her lips looked incredibly soft.

“No, but thank you,” she said, retracting her hands and standing up. “Good night, Andrea.”

And Andy was left standing there, scotch glass in hand, and wondering what the fuck had happened.

* * *

Miranda came in the next day and completely ignored Andy. Alright. There was no sign of a bruise on her face—expected, and Andy left her usual plate of fruit for Miranda.

So, after the night before, imagine Andy’s surprise when a very familiar man was standing at her desk, asking to see Miranda Priestly.

“Miranda is currently at a photoshoot,” Andy said, not looking up from her computer. “She’s not in at the moment. May I take a note?”

“Ah,” Stephen said. “Tell her that her husband is here to see her.”

Andy wanted to punch him in the face.

“Of course,” she replied, sweetly. She glared at him on his way out.

“Andrea?” Miranda called. Huh. Guess Miranda wasn’t ignoring her anymore.

“Yes, Miranda?”

“I need copies of these briefs by tomorrow, those Armani suits, and a bottle of wine for later today,” she ordered, Andy immediately scribbling them down, already texting Eileen, who was out picking up the Calvin Klein skirts.

“Of course, Miranda.”

“And Andrea?” Miranda looked at Andy over her glasses, seemingly examining her. Andy wondered how soft her hair was.

“Yes, Miranda?”

“Don’t bring your notebook this evening.”

What? Was she going to Miranda’s? Huh. Alright.

Andy scurried out of the office, trying to figure out what the hell kind of wine Miranda wanted for tonight. White? No. Red. Right? Yeah. It would be red. Hm. Maybe something from her home that she probably didn’t know she had. Yes. Andy would check.

Later that day, Miranda ordered Andy to hand Eileen a copy of her house key. Well. Time to truly pass on the baton. She felt a little strangely about it, but couldn’t place why.

She explained to Eileen the rules of The Book, though she was much more specific than Emily was with her—she didn’t want Eileen to have the same fuck up she did.

At promptly eight in the evening, Miranda left, grabbing her coat and leaving in a flurry of expensive fabrics.

She motioned for Andy to follow.

(Thank God she found that wine.)

“You don’t need me to pick up The Book as well?” Andy asked. Miranda looked at her as if she was stupid. Okay. Shut up.

Miranda was wearing a scarf today. It was a lovely shade of yellow. They stood silently in the elevator, Andy quickly texting Roy that they were coming down.

“Have you given your writing to  _ The Times  _ yet?” Miranda asked.

Wow. Andy didn’t even know that Miranda knew.

“Uh, not yet. I’m polishing a few things up,” she replied. (She’d be done if Miranda didn’t dole out everything at once.)

“Mm.”

“You look nice today,” Andy said. Shit. It slipped out of her mouth. Well, what was wrong with complimenting a pretty woman?

Miranda nodded.

The car ride was silent. Miranda stared out the window, and Andy clutched at her bag. Miranda’s makeup was starting to fade, ever so slightly.

“You should leave him,” Andy blurted out.

“I beg your pardon?” Miranda asked, finally looking at Andy. Andy stared ahead, looking resolutely at the back of Roy’s head.

“He’s hurting you.”

Miranda didn’t say anything for a while. “You wouldn’t understand.”

“You can divorce him,” Andy began. “It’s within the New York laws,  _ he’s  _ the one that gave you the papers in the first place—”

“No.”

What? Andy gaped at her.

“He’s  _ abusing  _ you.” Miranda stared at her sadly.

They pulled up at Miranda’s townhouse.

“Would you like me to drive you home, Miss. Sachs?” Roy asked.

“Yes, please,” Andy said, avoiding Miranda’s stare.

“No, you can pick her up later,” Miranda ordered and stepped out of the car. Well. Good try.

“Thank you, Roy,” Andy said and followed Miranda.

She slipped off her shoes as she walked in, tentatively going up after Miranda.

The wine was already set on the coffee table, as Andy had arranged. There were two glasses beside it, and the broken chair from the other night was nowhere to be seen.

At last, Andy got a good look at the—library? Sitting room?—she wasn’t sure. There was a lovely portrait of Caroline and Cassidy hung above the fireplace, which was brightly aflame.

Miranda poured out both glasses and handed Andy one.

“It’s a necessity,” she said, taking a sip.

“What is?” Andy was tempted to drink hers all at once.

“My marriage,” Miranda snarked, as if Andy should’ve known what she was referencing.

“Why?” Andy didn’t sit down.

“My husband,” Miranda began. “Has sway over the Board of Directors at Elias-Clarke.” Ah. There it is. Andy felt something akin to pain her chest.

“But he hurts you,” Andy heard herself say. “I don’t like to see you hurt.”

Miranda merely stared at her. At this point, Andy was pretty much used to it. (Maybe her makeup was just always off—that was very likely, honestly.)

Andy was right before. Miranda did look nice today, even if her blouse was a little less tucked than it was in the morning and her eyes a little more tired.

Andy wanted nothing but to take the pain away. She took another sip of wine.

“What can I do?” Her repeated words echoed in her head. She’d asked Miranda this thrice, now.

Miranda chuckled.

As Andy watched the woman laugh, it  _ fit. _

Oh God.

The breakfast, the meetings,  _ tonight.  _ Jesus, she was blind. Miranda was  _ courting  _ her. Andy bit her lip. Without thinking—she seemed to do a lot of that these days—she grabbed Miranda’s hand and pulled her up.

“I can’t do this,” she started, stopping Miranda as her mouth opened. “Let me find a new job first.”

Miranda smirked. “You’re pretty close to that, aren’t you?”

Andy smiled. “Yeah. Yeah, I am.”

And Andy carefully leaned in, gently kissing her on the lips. Somehow, her hands ended up in the carefully coiffed hair—yes, she had been right, Miranda’s hair was incredibly soft—and Miranda tasted of her expensive wine, a bit of caffeine, and her lipstick.

She pulled back, still holding Miranda’s hand, slightly breathless.

“God, I can’t believe I hadn’t noticed,” Andy joked, leaning her forehead on Miranda’s. Huh. She was taller, when Miranda was without heels.

Miranda merely smiled.

“Let me find a new job,” Andy repeated. Miranda nodded. “I, I should go, now.”

Miranda gave her another kiss, nearly knocking the wind out of Andy.

“Yes, yes,” she said, tone stern, but she was beaming in a way Andy had never seen before.

Yes. She should go now.

**FIN.**

> _ “It has been very rare to have known you, very strange and wonderful.” —F. Scott Fitzgerald _

**Author's Note:**

> Well, quarantine has finally gotten me writing. Hopefully there will be more works on the way, and please stay home! Comments are always greatly appreciated.


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